


Season Opener

by lindmere



Category: Almost Human
Genre: American Football, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-04
Updated: 2013-10-04
Packaged: 2017-12-28 08:56:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/990144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lindmere/pseuds/lindmere
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nothing says "fall" like watching the big game on your robot partner's immersive stadium simulation.</p><p>Written pre-premiere for the inaugural challenge at the <a href="http://almosthumantv.livejournal.com/10493.html">Almost Human LJ comm</a>, and therefore subject to Jossing on any number of levels (including not having nacho cheese in the future).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Season Opener

John isn’t sure what to expect from a robot’s apartment, but it sure as hell isn’t 1100 square feet of Japanese Modern furniture and a fish tank.

John isn’t even sure why a robot has to _have_ an apartment; it seems like a waste of money, when Dorian could just park himself in the nearest supply closet at the station and shut down for 12 hours. John was floored when Maldonado told him that Dorian draws a salary; what was the point of spending millions to build untiring, unbreakable workers if they just ended up joining the union and nagging you about pension issues? Although on that score--no aging, to retirement, no pension. Obsolescence? Now _that_ ’s a possibility, John thinks, feeling one stiff organic knee pop as he sinks into the depths of the dark gray polymer sofa. _You may find yourself out of a job some day,_ partner, _and then what? A thousand years of golf?_

John hates thinking about life and death and immortality when he’s supposed to be thinking about football, so it’s a pleasant surprise when Dorian appears from the kitchen and puts a cold Turbo Lite in John’s hand and a plate of nachos on the table.

“Wow. Those look great.” It isn’t a polite lie: they’re piping hot and gooey with the traditional quasi-cheese and topped with plenty of jalapenos. Dorian knows John loves anything spicy, just like John knows that Dorian doesn’t eat food.

“It’s okay,” Dorian says, as John looks at the plate with hunger and doubt. “I got the stuff at the mercado around the corner and basically just put it together. It’s not full of, like, silicon or bees or anything.”

John nods his acceptance of this around a mouthful of queso as Dorian drops onto the sofa next to him and pops on the Surround. They’re immediately enveloped by the sights and sounds--if not the smells and ridiculous ticket prices--of Voyageur Field.

“Fifty yard line okay?” Dorian asks, swiping through the available views while John is freshly boggled. He hasn’t even gotten around to setting up Surround in his new apartment--only has running water and toilet scrubs on a good day, if it comes to that--let alone springing for a premium vantage.

“Works for me.” John takes another swig. “Didn’t realize you were such a fan.”

Dorian shrugs. “I like the drama and sense of occasion. I’d rather watch one great game a week than a million little league and division and cup games.”

“Not a soccer fan, then?”

“Two words: _penalty kicks_ ,” Dorian says, wrinkling his nose.

 _Well_ , John thinks, _there’s something we can agree on_. “Damn right. The game should be settled the way the game is played.” He stuffs another nacho in his mouth--under the circumstances, it’s hardly rude-and leans forward in his virtual seat for the kickoff. Dorian, like any good Angeleno, has picked the home-town side, and John gets a nostalgic lift from being surrounded by the blue and gold of the L.A. Vikings. It’s a sign of fall, the beginning of the season of memory and regret, and about the only one he gets out here under the pink, smogbound sky and hot-hotter-hottest weather.

“Uh, would you mind--” Dorian brings John’s brain back into the room with a light tap on his knee. “It’s real glass; it scratches easily.”

“No problem,” John mutters, taking his feet off again.

Winnipeg should be a pushover, but they score easily in the first five minutes on an admittedly beautiful pass from their rookie quarterback.

John slaps his thigh in frustration. “Who _is_ that kid?

“Joshua Ojukwa out of Ole Miss. Passed for 2,732 yards with 21 touchdowns and finished eighth in Heisman voting. He was picked by Tennessee in the third round--”

“Okay, okay, I get it.” John chugs a little too fast and then coughs as bitter carbonation hits the back of his throat. Dorian’s displays of raw computing power are an uncomfortable reminder of the liquid state of his own memory. On good days it’s no worse than putting the cornflakes in the fridge; on bad days he wakes up sweating, afraid he’s forgotten his own name or the century or whether the last six months of his life are real or something furling out of his brain in the endless night of the hospital.

If it’s a dream, it’s a shitty one, because the Vikings give up another TD and the fair-weather fat cats on either side of John and Dorian start to wander off in the direction of the bar.

“Damn.” Dorian seems genuinely pissed off. “Before the season started I thought they were just being pessimistic about the defense.”

“No, I think they're just actually bad.”

Dorian laughs and runs his hands over his head and John finds himself looking at Dorian's bare forearms. He’s wearing a light grey T-shirt and there’s a lot more flesh--or plastic, whatever it is--exposed than normal, but John’s still too far away to see whether there’s a grain to it. He starts to wonder how far below the skin the detail goes, whether it’s stuffed with circuits and wires instead of veins, and gets a little vertigo. Or maybe it’s just the angle of the stadium seats.

“I’m going to hit the can.” John staggers to his feet, feeling the beer and fake cheese more than he should. “You do _have_ a bathroom, don’t you?

“Uh huh. I mostly do dishes in it, though, so you you may have to take some plates out of the toilet.”

John’s glance has just flicked toward the nachos when Dorian flashes a grin. “You asshole. I didn’t really _believe_ \--”

“Oh, yeah, you did. You thought there were, like, robot apartments with no toilet and no heat or whatever.” He turns wide, earnest eyes on John. “I got you beer and nachos _and oxygen_. I hope you appreciate what a good host I am.”

“Up yours,” John says, not frowning this time because he has to admit it’s at least a little bit funny, and that Dorian’s a pretty good sport about the weird synthetic shit that might otherwise be adding to John’s feeling of alienation from pretty much the whole planet.

“Second door on the left,” Dorian says.

Dorian’s bathroom is, in fact, a regular bathroom, except that it’s cleaner than 99% of the single guys’ bathrooms John has ever been in. The tile gleams blue-white, a spotless toothbrush sits upright in a spotless glass, and the towels, though pristine, appear to have been used.

John does what he came to do and is trying to decide whether he should run the water (or actually wash his hands) when he finds himself opening the medicine cabinet.

He doesn’t know what he expects--the horror of an empty medicine cabinet isn’t exactly something that haunts his dreams--but the inside isn’t shocking: there are a couple of bottles of cologne, some liquid soap and toothpaste and a comb. No razor, of course, and no medicine; not like the personal pharmacy that John has at home.

He decides to wash his hands after all but dries them on his jeans so he won’t have to fuss with the hand towel.

“Get yourself another beer if you want,” Dorian yells from the sofa as John makes his way back. “There are some chips on the counter.”

“Thanks. Maybe later.”

“No problem. As long as you’re making yourself at home.”

There’s a palpable chill. Of course, he’d forgot that Dorian’s super hearing could pick up the squeak of a cabinet hinge. Dorian has no nerves to tense, but his eyes, wide and unblinking, are on the field, and his posture seems a little more rigid than it was before.

“You missed a good drive,” he adds, still not looking at John. “Vikes are on the 20.”

“Nice.” John feels awkward and a little guilty. Dorian may be a crime lab and a tool kit and a battering ram all in human form, but there are times when he seems weirdly vulnerable, like he knows he’s not on the same frequency as everyone around him, no matter how hard he tries. John’s wondered before if it’s the ghost of some socially awkward geek programmer who made him, or if it’s just Dorian, the sum of everything he is making him rub his forearms and lean forward in his seat as if he doesn’t want to confront John but isn’t comfortable sitting next to him, either.

“Sorry,” John says finally, after a long and painful pause. Like most of John’s apologies, it sounds grudging. He tries again. “I mean, I shouldn’t have snooped, but cop’s instincts and all and--no, fuck, that isn’t it.” He rubs the back of his neck and tries not to dig himself deeper. “I was just--”

“Curious,” Dorian finishes, turning to look at him at last. “I know. And it’s okay. Just--” He scrunches his face the way he does when he’s reaching for something that may not be words. “Just ask, all right? The beer’s all yours, but my stuff is my stuff.”

“Okay, deal.” For once, John is glad he spoke.

“Probably not as interesting as your medicine cabinet, anyway.” The corners of Dorian’s mouth begin to curve up.

“That’s the truth.” A bit of a low blow, but John decides it’s okay.

“So, you’re curious. You want to ask me something?”

John does, actually. He looks into the clear, slate-blue eyes of his partner and asks him the question that’s been on his mind since he walked through the door.

“How do you afford this place on a cop’s salary?”

Dorian ducks his head, trying to hide a bemused smile, but it’s not working. “So. Okay. First, the Captain insisted the Department give me back pay for the time I was deactivated.”

“Seems fair.”

“Uh huh. Plus, I save a lot--no food, no doctors, heat at 55--you know, it adds up. Also, I like to go to vintage furniture stores.” He pauses. “Surprised?”

“I’m pretty much done being surprised.”

The not-quite-smile stays on Dorian’s face as he reaches for a nacho and maneuvers it into his mouth.

“Hey,” John says, forgetting everything else as Dorian crunches very deliberately. “Can you _do_ that? You’re not going to get gummed up or something?” He watches Dorian’s jaw muscles, mesmerized, as if he’s never seen someone chew before. “Can you taste it?”

“I can _analyze_ it.” Dorian looks thoughtful. “There’s a lot of sodium, calcium, milk protein, pigments--it seems pretty disgusting, actually.”

“It is.” John helps himself to another one and settles back into the sofa with a sigh. “But it wouldn’t be football season without it.”

Just then, the stands around them erupt in gold and purple and waving towels. Dorian gives a whoop and punches John’s shoulder--not too hard--and after a few seconds, John punches him back. Nothing has felt right for the last eternity or so, but this does, in its own small way--spending a Sunday afternoon at his partner’s place, watching the game.

He picks up his beer again, carefully, mindful of Dorian’s glass tabletop. “Maybe this fall isn’t going to suck after all.”


End file.
